Stratton’s peripheral vision suddenly caught movement at the restaurant entrance. But he fought not to look because the waitress had stepped back and the ideal moment to detonate the device seemed to be at hand. Then Ardian’s face broke into a broad grin and he stood up. Stratton looked towards the entrance to see Dren Cano walking in with Klodi who was wearing a heavy cast around his hand. The brothers greeted each other with a hug and held each other’s hands as they stood and talked.
Stratton turned his back on them, suddenly concerned that his disguise would not stand up to any level of scrutiny. He decided to get out of the restaurant as soon as possible but his problem was how to retrieve the device. Chairs were dragged over from nearby tables and the men talked loudly as Stratton moved along the wall towards the entrance, feigning interest in the various bits of artwork until he came to an antique cabinet with glass-panelled doors. He could see the men in the reflection. Cano was seated beside his brother, ordering drinks from the waitress.
As Stratton was about to carry on moving to the exit he was stopped by a sudden change of mind. He shifted position to improve his view in the poor reflection to gauge Ardian’s proximity to the bowl which was in front of him again – and now there was the added bonus of his brother being close by. Stratton could still not see clearly enough and he wanted to turn around to get a better look. But the waitress was still taking the men’s orders and so he waited, fingering the button on the device and ensuring that his departure route was clear. When he looked back into the reflection he saw Klodi looking directly at him.
One of Klodi’s compadres was trying to involve him in a conversation, unaware of Klodi’s sudden interest until the man got to his feet.
Stratton looked at Ardian’s reflection to see that he had a fork in his hand and was about to dip it into the spaghetti, still talking with his brother. Klodi stepped to one side to get a better look at the man with his back to him who looked vaguely familiar.
Stratton had only seconds to decide whether to get out of the restaurant right away or risk another fight with Cano that he might not survive this time. His gaze flashed to Ardian who was now dipping the fork into the bowl. Then he saw Klodi say something to his friend and they both looked at Stratton with interest. Klodi took a step towards Stratton as Ardian dug the fork into the spaghetti and twirled it around, mixing it into the sauce. He pulled the bowl beneath his chin, lowered his head and drew the luscious, writhing bundle up to his mouth.
‘Hey! You!’ Klodi called out to Stratton as he took another step towards him.
The overburdened fork approached Ardian’s mouth. It opened like a grouper’s and the dripping pasta was pushed inside, tendrils of spaghetti hanging down, still connected to the rest of the meal in the bowl. His teeth came down onto the
Stratton turned from the cabinet as the waitress passed him. He headed for the entrance, intent now on getting out fast.
‘Hey, you! Klodi called out again, moving to intercept him.
Stratton’s finger hit the button on the device as he walked out of view of the table and the hostess’s ‘Goodbye, have a great day’ was cut short. The explosion was like an enormously loud clap, singularly sharp and high-pitched. It was immediately followed by the noise of smashing glass, a tremor as the building shook slightly, a short, echoing rumble that brought down the ornate ceiling light onto the table and finally a piercing scream from the waitress.
Ardian’s body remained in position for several seconds after the explosion, surrounded by a light wisp of smoke, his head completely gone along with the hand that had been holding the fork. Blood spurted in a weak fountain as rapidly decreasing pressure in the arteries at either side of his windpipe pumped it down over his chest and back and onto the floor.
Cano was lying on his side, holding his face with bloody hands. Everyone had been struck by bits of Ardian and spaghetti bolognese though it was difficult to tell the difference. Only a row of front lower teeth attached to a piece of jaw on the table was recognisably human debris. For several seconds the other men remained frozen in shock.
When Cano lowered his hands, blood was dribbling from cuts all over his face and in particular from one of his eyes where a piece of white china was sticking out. Ardian’s torso fell forward with a heavy thump to cover a large, almost perfectly symmetrical hole in the table where the bowl had been. The compression of his chest and stomach against the edge of the table caused a spurt of blood and mucus to shoot from his severed neck onto one of his colleague’s laps.
Cano was in a great deal of pain and sat perfectly still as he opened his good eye wide enough to look at what was left of his brother. For a moment he remained in shock, his ears ringing loudly while he took in what had happened and brought himself under control. He also had to deal with the intense stinging in his wounded eye.
Klodi was the first to recover since he had not been facing the blast. As he glanced around at the mess he removed something wet that had struck him on the neck and discovered that it was a top lip with a bit of nose attached. He flicked it away in disgust and made his way to the entrance where the hostess was crawling around on the floor, throwing up and crying at the same time. Klodi stepped over her and reached for the door where the valets were cautiously looking through, opened it and shuffled down the steps and onto the sidewalk. Half a dozen or so people were in the street, all of whom had stopped to look towards the restaurant but Klodi could see no sign of the man he was certain was the one who had fought him in the limo.
Stratton was already in the park and taking the long way back to his apartment while he removed his goatee and dark glasses and carried out a post-operation analysis, searching his memory for any way that he might have left obvious clues. All in all he felt the hit had been a success. He now needed to put it behind him and concentrate on the final stage of his mission, which was to get Josh and his mother’s body home. He had completed the revenge phase but he felt a hint of concern about being discovered. He would pay a heavy price for the murders if he was caught and if he did end up in jail the question of whether it had all really been worth it would haunt him.
As Stratton entered his apartment and closed the door sirens on vehicles coming to a stop close by drifted in through the windows. He considered quitting the apartment and finding somewhere else to stay. On the other hand, if the police connected him to either of the incidents before he finished what he had to do they would find him no matter where he lived. He thought about the prospect of going on the run for the rest of his life and considered the many places around the world where he could lose himself. Africa sprang to mind, where he could do mercenary work, or the Far East where he could bounty-hunt pirates for local police forces. There were actually, plenty of countries where he could hide while earning an okay living but he shook the thoughts from his head, growing irritated with himself. He sat back on the small sofa to take the weight off his feet, a jabbing pain shooting through his ribs to remind him of his injury. He would have liked to go to sleep there and then but he had to get over to the child-protection centre and see Josh. Stratton pulled himself off the couch before he got any more comfortable and went into the bedroom to wash and change.
17
Hobart sat in his office on the eleventh floor of the big grey Federal building on Wilshire Boulevard. The road ran east from Santa Monica’s cliffs three miles away and across the entire city. The FBI’s California headquarters was situated in Westwood, LA’s secondary business centre that was crammed with towering glass office blocks overlooking a vast university campus.
It was mid-morning and Hobart was coming to the end of a pile of e-mails, a hundred and fifty-three in total, which was not an unusual number on most days of the week. He made a point of reading them every morning even on his days off and on holi -day simply because they would pile up relentlessly if he didn’t. About half of them were intelligence reports and minutes of meetings from all over the world that his rank gave him access to, the rest concerned FBI matters in California.
The fifth e-mail on that morning’s list was from the forensics department two floors down and had been sent to Hobart late the night before. The subject heading referred to the case of Leka Bufi who had been killed in the Santa Monica courthouse and there was a sub-reference to Ardian Cano’s explosive demise in the Italian restaurant
